


Ghost Factory

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2, Xenoblade Chronicles X
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: “Perhaps someday, you could teach me how to use Ghost Factory as well.”Elma laughs. “We’ll see.”





	Ghost Factory

**Author's Note:**

> god i can't believe Elma's literally in xc2 i love her sfm
> 
> xcx switch remaster and/or sequel when monosoft!!

“Is there a limit,” Mòrag starts, nearly uncertain, “to the phantoms you can conjure?” 

Elma slowly turns her head, but not all the way, only glancing at Mòrag from the corners of her eyes. She welcomes her inquiry with a friendly squint. 

“Curious, are we?” 

Mòrag nods. 

Uraya’s belly is ablaze with Saffronia petals. Or, rather, _cherry_ , as Elma had called them. But the cherry trees of the Earth she spoke of apparently paled compared to the luminescence of these blossoms, and she still sometimes sounds vaguely sad when she talks about it, but it doesn’t stop her from admiring the view whenever the trees shed their flowers to the breeze. 

The weather was identical to this, when their group had battled Elma for the very first time. Perhaps that’s why Mòrag had decided to ask. 

“Some of my Arts work differently in this world. I’m not sure why, but I’m not complaining,” Elma says, turning her guns over in her hands. “I basically patented Ghost Factory, as well as Shadowstrike. There wasn’t a single BLADE who could figure out how to pull them off, and I couldn’t exactly teach them either. Well, there was one, but she… ah, nevermind. I’m starting to ramble again.” 

“No, I don’t mind,” Mòrag says. 

“Thanks. Anyway, Ghost Factory was originally meant to create decoys of all my teammates, not just myself. I used that Art primarily as a diversion tactic. The illusions weren’t tangible and couldn’t deal any damage of their own, but most indigens weren’t smart enough to pick us out from the decoys.” 

She points one of her guns outward, pretending to aim at a Puffot flying overhead. It’s harmless. So many of the creatures here are harmless, comparatively. Smaller, too. Walking around Alrest with her guard down comes naturally. In Mira, there was always something around the corner waiting for its next meal to stroll over into its waiting jaws.

Mòrag is watching her closely. Come to think of it, it’s rare to see the Special Inquisitor without Brighid at her side. Elma lowers the gun and holds it out for her to see. 

“So, you wanted to know how many decoys I could summon?”

She’s hesitantly reaching for the gun, just the tips of her fingers outstretched to touch the metal, but Elma pulls it back at the last second. Mòrag blinks. Elma tilts her chin up with a small smile. 

“How about we test it out, with a quick sparring session? I’ll let you use my swords.” 

Trying not to look _too_ eager is proving to be a more difficult task than expected. Mòrag’s pulse is already beginning to hasten as she takes Elma’s blades, and they back away from each other— the cliff is steep, but the clearing is level and provides plenty of room. 

Those Saffronia petals swirl around their feet, then are abruptly swept away by an unseen breeze.

“Ghost Factory!” 

The air around Elma shimmers, and the shimmering solidifies into three identical copies. All four of them immediately charge at Mòrag, but she’d learned from the first and second times they had battled together. She dives to the side to avoid the onslaught of bullets, then swerves again as one of the ghosts tries to strike at her. 

But there’s something playful in the way Elma’s ghosts maneuver around her, as if they’re dancing, and Mòrag realizes she’s simply buying time to recharge. So be it, then.

Twenty seconds.

_”Ghost Factory!”_

Five, six, seven… 

Something roughly clips her from behind; Mòrag grunts, stumbling forward, ducks as one of those Elmas swings a leg at her, twists to dodge a Sliding Slinger, sidesteps a stream of bullets, all her focus poured into trying to keep track of every single assailant. Sweat drips down her temple.

It’s far different from fighting a mob of wild beasts, or even training with soldiers. Elma is swift, and calculating, and all those phantoms seem autonomous enough with their own battle instinct.

Or if they’re each controlled remotely… but Elma surely couldn’t command their individual movements by herself. 

Two ghosts attack her from both sides and she blocks both attacks, the blades violently clashing. She can feel the reverberations through her arms. Without thinking, she bares a sliver of teeth in excitement. 

“Is that all?” 

“Not even close,” an Elma laughs, roughly knocking her to the side towards another Elma. “I’ve still got enough for more.” 

Mòrag catches her footing and moves aside, still weaving and dodging between the seven of them—

_”Ghost Factory!”_

Eight, nine, ten. 

Somehow, it still isn’t enough. Not even when a bullet grazes her arm and she drops one of the swords, nor when the back of her legs are kicked and her knees buckle, and certainly not when three Elmas simultaneously stomp their feet against her, pinning her down in the warm grass. 

She’s panting hard, the exhilaration coursing through her veins so hard and _Elma could surely conjure more ghosts than this._ Mòrag shifts her head to look around, at all those phantoms surrounding her, unable to see anything up past their legs. The grass is tickling her cheek. Which one is the real Elma? Maybe it’s the one that’s suddenly kneeling between her shoulder blades— ah. 

“You didn’t fight back, Mòrag.”

“I was hoping you’d go beyond ten.”

“Come on, you know how sturdy my ghosts are. It’s alright to take a swing or stab at them.”

“Evading your attacks took far enough of my focus.”

“Nice excuses.” 

Then the weight on her back is lifted, but before Mòrag can try to get up on her knees or feet, she’s rolled over (quite roughly, at that) and finds herself staring up at all those Elmas. 

Oh, it’s the one who isn’t holding swords. That’s the real Elma. Of course. 

“Enjoying the view?” she asks.

“The petal rain is beautiful today,” Mòrag lightly says.

Elma— the real one, looks up at the interior of Uraya’s stomach. “Yeah, it is.” 

But they both know what she meant. 

“Alright, that's enough rest for you. Ready for another round?” Elma offers a hand down to her. “You’re right, I think I can make more decoys. But I should warn you, I won’t hold back this time.” 

It’s exciting, and dangerous, and maybe a little scary too. It’s perfect. The fight would probably be more bearable if she had Brighid with her, but some alone time with Elma and… a dozen other Elmas, is fine, too. Mòrag grasps her hand and allows her to pull her back up to her feet. She’s sore, where Elma’s knee had pressed into her back. 

“Perhaps someday, you could teach me how to use Ghost Factory as well.” It’s a farfetched suggestion, but Mòrag has to at least try. She just… wants to.

Elma laughs. “We’ll see.”


End file.
